


Sometimes, if you close your eyes and fumble blindly

by alice_pike



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_pike/pseuds/alice_pike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>On their better days, it feels more to them like a healthy, functional couples' sex life than it does two people longing for something they can never have again. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>On their worse days, it's the closest they can get to having it back, and it's almost good enough.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, if you close your eyes and fumble blindly

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place several years after _Laws and Promises_ , mostly ignoring _Conqueror of Shamballa_.
> 
> There are hints of past Roy/Ed and Ed/Al, but take those relationships how you will--substantiated and/or requited, or not.

Roy pushes Al down onto the couch face-first.

Al grumbles a little, protesting; he props himself up on his elbows and turns to look at Roy over his shoulder, but makes no further complaint. Roy can see the want clear as day in Al's eyes, and he can tell that Al just wants to be able to touch him, to be able to see Roy's face.

Al's pants are still bunched around his knees, though, so there's not a whole hell of a lot he can do without getting tangled up (and Al knows that Mustang knows it) so he decides to make the best of it, hopefully enticing Mustang to _get the hell on with it_ in the process. Al lets himself sink more fully onto the couch, trying to focus only on getting himself off. He makes a show of rolling his hips, pressing his erection into the plush fabric of Mustang's couch, acting for all the world like Mustang isn't even there. The friction feels _amazing_ after all of Mustang's teasing earlier, and the moan that escapes Al's lips is genuine. 

Al's desired effect is pretty much immediate: Over his own breathing, Al can hear Mustang fumble with the last of his clothes, can imagine him dropping them to the ground haphazardly in his growing frustration. Within moments, Al feels the couch dip around his knees as Mustang straddles him. 

This thing between them, whatever it is (Al's never really been able to define it), has never been gentle, or particularly caring, and now is no exception. Roy spits a couple of times onto his fingers and immediately finds Al's hole, holding him open with his free hand. He sinks a finger into Al past the second knuckle in one solid motion, and despite it being muffled by the couch, Al's hiss—whether of pain or pleasure or both, Roy doesn't know—is audible. 

Roy can _feel_ Al trying to relax his muscles and take deeper, calming breaths to make this as easy as possible; Roy doesn't speak, but he does hum in approval as Al loosens beneath him. He works his finger in and out of Al a few times, crooking it inside him, and when Al's breathing finally levels out, he pushes in another. Al's hiss this time is unmistakably one of pain, and Roy doesn't actually want to hurt him so he leans closer and spits on his fingers again, but that's as much of a concession as he's willing to make. He does take it slower, though, and Al relaxes, rutting a little against the couch to offset the lingering pain. After several minutes Roy speeds up, and soon Al is making little nonsensical noises of pleasure, his composure starting to slip.

Roy can't help the smile that finds its way onto his face as he studies Al—the way Al doesn't even seem to realize that he's spread his legs, the way Al's knuckles whiten around the lot of fabric he's got bunched in his fist every time Roy pushes in deeper. Everyone Roy knows thinks that Al is the more innocent of the Elric brothers, but he knows better. Watching Al now—the easy way he lets Roy do whatever he wants, and _likes_ it—Roy wants to be the _only_ one who knows better. 

By the time Roy's working in a third finger, Al is rocking back into him; Roy scissors his fingers inside of Al, opening him further, fucking into him faster. Al has never been very vocal during sex, and as it is, he only manages to grunt in frustration after a few minutes, needing _more_. 

There is a bit of confusion and a tangling of limbs as they shuffle on the couch, Al making room enough for Roy to lean forward over him, bracing himself on one hand. His other hand reaches down between them, and Roy's breath stutters as he strokes himself a couple of times, spreading his precome down the length of his cock, smearing some on the red ring of Al's hole. Roy lines himself up and guides the head of his cock into Al, sucking in a breath through his teeth. The little of Al's body he can feel is a fucking _tease_ , but he wants this to last so he presses in only a little more before holding himself still, giving Al time to adjust, as well. He chokes off a moan as he finally slides all the way in, the tightness and heat enveloping him sending shockwaves of pleasure outward through his entire body.

His self control only lasts for so long, though, and when Al shimmies under him, clearly needing Roy to move, Roy pulls almost all of the way out, a slow roll of his hips and a drag of skin-on-skin that has both of them gasping before he pushes back in. He goes slow for the first few thrusts, deliberate and almost methodical, but it doesn't take long for them to work up to a decent rhythm, Al rocking into the couch every time Roy fills him. Soon, though, the friction on Al's cock is almost painful; he pushes himself up, bracing himself on his elbows. From this position, he's able to push back harder against Roy's thrusts, changing the angle to let Roy get deeper inside of him.

For a while, their ragged breathing is all that fills the silence of the room, of Roy's whole house, and their movements start to get sloppy and inconsistent as they get closer to climax.

 

Al doesn't know his history with Mustang—doesn't know _Ed's_ history with Mustang—and neither of them are stupid enough to bring it up.

Al's been told almost everything of the four years he spent with his brother. He knows what role Mustang has played in their lives; he knows what Mustang has done for them (and even what he has done _to_ them) over the years. But there is something not-quite-right with the stories he's been told about them and Mustang, some _absence_ —something missing that no one seems willing to address. But Al's a smart kid, and Mustang's a fool, so it's not hard to fill in the blanks.

He keeps as silent about it as everyone else; he never asks around, never confirms his conclusions. Nothing good would come of it, he knows, so what's the point? It remains an unspoken not-truth between them, and Al never knows where he truly stands. He shapes his relationship with Mustang out of fragments and half-formed suggestions; he makes it look how he wants it to, with no clear idea how it should. Mustang of all people doesn't tell him otherwise, and if he notices that Al isn't exactly the kid in the armor he knew so well, he doesn't say anything.

If Al has to be half his brother to fill the void that Ed left behind, so be it. He'll do it gladly, every damn day for the rest of his life, if he has to.

It's a small price to pay.

 

Mustang's thrusts get more and more frantic, and even though Al has a harder time matching his rhythm, it scarcely matters at this point. Arousal burns bright in Al's gut, threatening to overwhelm him, and just the stretch of his body around Mustang's cock is enough to keep him on the edge.

Through the haze of pleasure both sharpening and dulling his senses, Al notices that Mustang's pace has slowed, that his thrusts aren't going so deep. He feels Mustang shift his weight, now holding his cock still inside of Al, and suddenly there is a tugging sensation on his skull as Mustang pulls Al's hair out of its ponytail and lets it cascade over his shoulders. Mustang resumes fucking into Al almost immediately, but one of his hands stays in Al's hair, obviously costing him some of his leverage, because seemingly to make up for it, Mustang grabs a fistful of Al's hair and _pulls_ on it as he thrusts. Al's head snaps back from the force of it, and sharp pinpoints of pain erupt all along his skull, making his eyes water and bringing him back a little from the brink of his orgasm. 

Al adjusts to take more of Mustang's weight, but he can barely breathe with his head thrown so far back, his neck stretched and exposed. White spots start to flicker in his field of vision as he can take little more than rattling, shallow breaths, but the sensation goes straight to his groin and he bucks under Mustang as an intense wave of pleasure rolls through him. He can't help but moan, a low rumble of sound that he feels more than hears. Mustang all but _purrs_ at this rare loss of Al's self control, and Al's almost tempted to do it again, to see what other reactions he could tease out of Mustang's usually so unreadable demeanor. 

All such thoughts are pushed aside, though, as Mustang starts to pound into him at a furious pace, his thrusts getting shallow and erratic; Al knows Mustang won't last much longer. Impossibly, his grip in Al's hair tightens and then he's panting out words— _Al, Al_ , fuck, _Al_ —and then he's coming, spilling inside of Al and shaking as he rides it out.

Mustang still has composure enough left to pull out of Al when he's done and collapse on the other side of the couch, allowing Al to shift and finish himself off with one hand rough on his cock. Al's been close for so long that it doesn't take much, and he can still _feel_ Mustang inside of him as he fucks a few times into his fist and comes. He spills onto Mustang's couch but doesn't feel particularly bad about it, and does nothing to clean it up. 

 

Al may not know how to define whatever it is that he and Mustang have, but it's something that he _wants_ , something that he's pretty damn sure they both need. 

Despite the rather less-than-affectionate nature of the sex they generally have, they are perfectly polite to each other in public—even most times in private. Their relationship doesn't feel contemptible or shameful to either one of them, and most of the time they don't even feel like they're keeping it a secret. They know, somehow, that they'd both openly admit to whatever it was between them (if anyone was suicidal enough to ask), and they haven't even been very good at hiding it (sex in Mustang's office with his entire staff on duty isn't exactly inconspicuous). It's never been awkward, or unequal, or anything but consensual. No one has looked at Al as a kid since the first time he was ten years old, and no one questions Roy except Riza, and even she lets this go.

On their better days, it feels more to them like a healthy, functional couples' sex life than it does two people longing for something they can never have again. 

On their worse days, it's the closest they can get to having it back, and it's almost good enough.

 

Several minutes pass in silence as they collect themselves. Roy puts his clothes back on with shaking hands, and Al brushes his fingers through his hair before putting it back up, pressing gently on the tender spots on his skull and glaring weakly at Roy. Roy shrugs and looks as apologetic as he ever does (which is to say, not at all) and follows Al to the door.

"You don't have to leave, you know," Roy tells him, but Al shrugs in turn.

"I should be getting back; I still have a lot of work ahead of me if I'm to get those arrays to you by tomorrow."

Roy nods, accepting Al's explanation. Al opens the door and Roy makes an unconscious gesture as if to clasp Al's shoulder in farewell, but Al's already turning away and Roy yanks his hand back as if burned.

Al doesn't shut the door behind him and Roy stands unmoving in the still-open doorway, watching Al make his way leisurely down the street.

Al doesn't look back, and Roy stares into the distance long after he is out of sight.


End file.
